


Shire Sunsets

by bluebirdsandbumblebees



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bag End, M/M, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25808917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebirdsandbumblebees/pseuds/bluebirdsandbumblebees
Summary: Sam and Frodo watch the sunset.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Shire Sunsets

“It’s beautiful,” said Sam Gamgee, turning to look up at the soft pinks and oranges melting together in the darkening midsummer sky. “Don’t you think, Mister Frodo?”

The other hobbit turned back down the dusty path to look at Sam, eyes glittering with a fondness that made his gardener blush. He then turned to the sky, taking a deep breath and resting his hands on his hips.

“It’s lovely, Sam,” he said after a few moments. “Come on, now, we can go up to Bag End and watch there.”

Sam nodded; he watched as Frodo turned and, for a fleeting moment, was silhouetted against the sky, as though he’d been wreathed in a flame that was steadily bleeding out into different shapes and colours. He shook the thought away.

... 

When Frodo and Sam arrived at the front gate to Bag End, Frodo ushered Sam over to the bench in front of the garden. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said once Sam had seated himself awkwardly on the bench. Frodo had then hurried inside the smial, shutting the cheery green door behind him.

Sam sat on his hands, feeling very awkward—he had never really gotten used to being up on Bagshot Row alone, and without the comforting presence of his companion, the gardens he tended to perfection in the long hours of the Shire sun seemed unfamiliar and not nearly as grand as Frodo assured him they were. Hoping to distract himself, Sam tore his gaze from the mercifully un-wilting primroses he had planted the other day and instead gazed down at the fields below, which were all highlighted with a bright yellow line that separated the darkening grass and peoples from the flaming oranges and pinks of the sky.

Folk were still gathered around the Party Tree, laughing and chatting about the events of the day; young Miss Estella Bolger had won the latest contest for Best Raspberry Tart (Sam had gotten one for himself and Frodo, so they both could attest to their inarguable perfection), and apparently there was a recent addition to the Bracegirdle family over in Hardbottle. 

Tosto Boffin was wandering up and down the pathway from Bag End to Hobbiton below, lighting the bulbs that were strung from tree to tree with a long pole, and every once and a while he’d miss one and have to go tramping back up the hill to relight it. Sam thought his job was rather thankless, and privately sent him good wishes and thanks, hoping Tosto might feel them telepathically, somehow. It was only afterwards that he felt a bit silly for thinking that he might actually have sent a telepathic message of appreciation to the lighter. He stared, slightly pink in the face, at his knees.

Frodo, yet unnoticed by Sam, had slipped into the garden with a tray of herbal teas and the scones that he’d baked earlier that morning. He stood for a moment, closing the gate and fiddling absently with the lock, before smiling warmly and sliding into the empty spot on the bench. Sam glanced up and smiled back, lost for a moment in the love in the endless pools of Frodo’s deep blue eyes, and the way the sun lit his visage and washed over his features like the ethereal glow of an Elven prince. Then he blushed and turned away.

“Here,” said Frodo gently, setting the tray down so that half of it rested on his thigh and the other half on Sam’s. “I made scones. They probably aren’t very good, and I meant to bring them with us for lunch today, but perhaps they’ll better suit our purposes up here.” Now was Frodo’s turn to go red to the very tips of his ears as he shyly handed Sam a blueberry scone.

“Thank you,” Sam murmured, taking the scone and holding it delicately between his calloused hands like one might hold a small, frightened animal or a precious gem. It was a simple gesture, making a pastry for one’s companion, but it was a gesture nonetheless. 

The two hobbits sat by one another in silence, nibbling at the scones (which were a bit too dry, but to Sam, they seemed perfect) and staring off into the sky. Sam was admiring the way the sun—not even near the clouds to the south, could set the bottom of the fluffy grey clouds alight in all shades of pinks and yellows. How the view to the east, where the sun had nearly disappeared behind the trees like a child cuddling into a dark, forested blanket, was still blasted with the oranges and yellows of the afternoon, even as the west slipped into the quiet blues and dusty purples of dusk. He focused for a while on the place in the middle of both extremes, admiring how the oranges and pinks melted into the blues and purples with a simple ease, as though connecting two sides of the horizon were the simplest thing in the world. Somehow, though, it made sense.

And as Sam sat admiring the sky, Frodo… well. Frodo was admiring Sam.

**Author's Note:**

> *desperately tries to portray samfro symbolism in a paragraph about a sunset*


End file.
